


One-Off One-Shots

by heli0s



Series: Bag of Tricks [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Crack, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s
Summary: One-shots from Bag of Tricks.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Series: Bag of Tricks [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629970
Comments: 8
Kudos: 97





	1. Cut

**Author's Note:**

> Bag of Tricks has been split up into two parts. These are all the one-shots that establish Bucky/Reader in a relationship. Each chapter's storyline is unrelated. The only similar aspect is the characterization of the Reader.

There was always something about women’s hair that caught Bucky’s attention. 

Perhaps it was the latent memories of his sisters and ma doing their hair every night and fixing it each morning in perfect coiffed rings- something about the smell of hairspray and the curling iron, hot and sizzling, barely burnt into the ether.

Women these days probably didn’t spend as _much_ time on their hair, Bucky thought— but well, maybe they did. The Widow changed her look every few years and The Witch spent quite a while on perfecting those waves. Regardless, he always appreciated when a gal walked by with shiny, long, locks, bouncing against her back.

He often regarded his own hair in the mirror, taking note of its length. He wondered if he should cut it again like in those old pictures, but something about the shortness made him feel insecure and too open. He liked to be covered up now—as a reminder of who he’s become.

The only time he really thought about cutting it for good was when you’d snatch it by the handfuls during a fight. It started off as a mouthy little spat where you threatened to rip out his hair for looking better than yours, then slowly transformed into actual pulling, then a few weeks later you were bold enough to use it against him.

You’d gotten him pretty good, all five fingers deep, and brought him down by slamming him against the wall. The face bruise was nothing compared to the tender welts on his scalp for the next two days.

He didn’t let himself stoop to your level, but it started becoming a signature move for you, and you were ballsy enough to try two hands. Of course, it left the rest of your body wide open and he easily kneed you the hell out of the way.

Bucky always appreciated eagerness, but sometimes you could be such a… _pain._

You had pretty gorgeous hair, yourself, Bucky admitted. It was impressive: long, thick, and he couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen you fiddle with it after a shower other than wringing the hell out of it with a rough linen towel. You’d brush it loosely with your fingers and then leave it there. Somehow it dried every time into a beautiful pile of wavy locks that was envied by many female agents. You were smart enough to pull it into a tight bun before a fight, but since there was so much of it, it generally flopped out of the band anyway.

Lately it’s grown so long that it was touching your lower back and getting caught in the damndest places, like car windows and doors and the constantly shifting plates in Bucky’s metal hand. You had gotten so upset when he snagged a few strands during a routine grapple in the spaces of his knuckles; you’d stormed off the mat and slammed the door on the way out. The mental chart in Bucky’s head where he kept tally of how often you baffled him earned another strike.

Half an hour later as the last shot emptied in his pistol, he pulled his earmuffs off to find you leaning against the door, choking as he briefly wondered if he’s hallucinating. Your signature unruly mane had been completely buzzed off and left with a close crop of even dark stubble all around your crown. He couldn’t pinch it between his smallest fingers if he tried.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. I know. I got tiny little bits all over me. Let’s go wrestle. I’m _so_ gonna kick your ass.”

“Holy _shit_.”

You pulled a face somewhere between disgusted and amused. 

“My buzz cut getting you randy or what, dude? Jesus.”

You turned away with a suspicious eye before walking back towards the gym. Bucky easily caught up, lost in thought about how quickly a simple haircut could change not only an appearance, but someone _else’s_ notions.

For example, he first thought about how much he missed the very specific way your hair shimmered under the fluorescent lights of the hallway— a dull shimmer, but it still did. Or how the curve in your waves would flick against your shoulders when you’d brush them out of the way. Or how lately, the tips of your hair would sway along your lower back, threatening to brush up against your bottom.

Your long hair had given you such a strange feminine grace, making all of your movements fluid and enthralling– beautiful and strong the way ballerinas are.

But suddenly, none of that existed. 

Bucky watched as you marched through the compound, surprised to see, for the first time, that your gait matched his own. People were swerving to the sides of the halls as you walked past, either balking at your lack of locks or your vicious stomping.

When he squared up in the training room, fists raised, he couldn’t help but notice that you had exceptionally thick eyelashes and such sleek and shapely brows. Even the tip of your nose and cheekbones seemed more prominent, and _hell_ , you sported a smattering of barely-there freckles across the side of your left cheek. Bucky thought they looked like the scattering of constellations in a night sky.

He didn’t even see you coming until your weight was already thrown over his chest and he was knocked back onto the mat with you sitting on top of him, knees to the side of his face, right hand on his neck.

“You didn’t even try that time, man. Usually you catch me at least halfway.” You gave him a perturbed look, followed by a strange realization, “I’m riding your _collarbones_ , Barnes.”

Bucky shifted beneath you, mouth hanging open ever so slightly as he crunched forward, the movement of his abs threatening to pitch you over until you felt his wide metal hand splayed out on your spine. The flesh hand palmed the side of your head, brushing over until it rested on the back of your skull, heel of it on your neck. You were surprised when his fingers continued to massage and were even more shocked when the rubbing motion started to feel _so_ _good_ that you leaned into his hand every which way.

He couldn’t help but touch your scalp, the bristles of short hair scrubbing against his palm. It felt so silly, but there was something so deeply liberating to see and feel your mane gone. He saw you in a completely different light- more feral and _real_.

It had previously shrouded you in his mind under a notion of femininity— one he attached to his sisters, to all women with long hair. It didn’t mean that you were weak, or lesser than him, it was just… _something._ And seeing you without it was something _else_.

It stirred him even more so that you had forgone any semblance of style- maybe a fringe, or a bob, a short pixie would have looked nice. Instead, you just… took it all away. 

A slow strike was being carved on his baffled list once more.

Bucky pulled all the way up, sliding your body down his chest to straddle his waist with your legs.

“Uh,” you intelligently posited, glancing awkwardly at the intimate position, “ _What_ is going on?”

“Why’d you shave it all off?”

“ _What_? Dude my buzzcut _is_ making you randy.” You struggled against his grasp on your back, trying to free your legs until he placed his warm hand on your thigh, quieting your movements.

“I’m just wonderin’.” His voice was so soft you had to lean closer to hear it.

“I dunno,” you shrugged, “Tired of it. Bored of it. Might as well. Kept getting _stuck_ everywhere. It’s just fuckin’ hair. And honestly, it feels great. _Badass_.” You swatted a few stray bits that had lingered on your shoulder, turning side-to-side. Bucky watched in awe of your striking portfolio- the gentle slope of your nose, your prominent cupid’s bow, the sharp angle of your jawline from your chin… he always thought your hair was a necessary addition to your essence, but without it, you were _breathtaking_.

“You are obviously a fan.” You laughed sarcastically.

He could only stutter, “Y-yeah, I am.”

You reeled back in response of his admission. Bucky’s eyes kept roaming over your face and it was honestly freaking you out. He looked like he was going to _kiss_ you.

“Christ, Barnes, what in all of hell is–”

His lips descended on yours, the air around you shifting as Bucky sucked in deep breaths, parting and then coming back for seconds, both hands tight on your neck and even harder on your upper thigh. You pulled away, eyes absurdly wide, trying to understand the situation, “Bucky?”

He stopped, cheeks flushing bashfully as if you’d caught him red-handed elbow-deep in the communal Stark Tower cookie jar. “…’m sorry…”

You shook your head, licking your lips over the remnants of his touch, trying to catch your breath.

“You’re a great kisser, Barnes, but honestly, I _really_ want to wrestle. I think the lack of hair is going to make me _fucking_ slippery. _Hella_ aerodynamic, you know?”

He laughed and cuffed you on the back of the head, spine tingling as your hair sandpapered against the inside of his wrist, “You’re on.”

As he watched you rise, your hand swiftly running up the back of your own neck, curious to feel what he felt, Bucky added a new mark to a new list of things you did to him. He mused over the subject matter- hesitant about lingering on it for too long. You were still a pain, after all.


	2. Flavor of the Day

Some things just get you riled up.

Stupid things, mostly. Things that bubble out of the incomprehensible blue of your mind. Innocuous things, sometimes things that made most others unwell: Sam picking up the corner of the couch to grab the remote, Maria wiping lipstick off her teeth disdainfully, goddamn Smurfette talking Smurf gibberish to Papa Smurf.

It was always a mixed bag.

So, when the bomb explodes on a regular Wednesday afternoon recon mission in the flat ghost town prairie of Gun Barrel, Texas of all places, a sudden tickle travels up your spine.

Destruction, apparently, is the flavor of the day.

Bomb aside, Texas is the pits when you’re not in a major city. Hours and hours of driving, your thighs chafing in the back of the mini-van, stupid easy-listening crooning because Steve can’t stand any excitement. Grumpy old fuck.

There hadn’t even been any sights to see, other than cows of enormous sizes, dilapidated barns, flat, straight, endless pasture, and—

“Hey!” You had yelled, pointing.

“What?” Two voices replied, whipping around to see what your exclamation was meant for.

Bucky scoffed when he realized your smashed finger against the window had been pointing to the swirls of yellow flaxen threads piled atop each other: hay.

You thought it was hilarious. Steve, spitefully, turned up the warble of ancient, sizzling-static, sometimes accompanied by a shrill voice. Bucky leaned his seat back until it hit your knees.

“Grumpy old fucks.” You muttered, drowned out by terrible noise.

So, again, when the bomb explodes and levels the top floor, you are _aching_ for something good. Rubble crashes from the ceiling, tearing cavernous holes in the current room while an alarm blares, dousing the entire place in abrupt and flashing red. Your blood is rushing, heart beating madly to the rhythm of the siren’s shriek.

Gunfire erupts from the next room where Steve is, but you either must make it to the stairwell and survive, or chance being crushed with him.

Risk, you realize with a ferocious grin, is the flavor of the day.

You barrel through the door, taking it completely off its hinges and sink your knife into the man scrambling to get Cap. It rips him neck to his goddamn tailbone and the eggshell-white notches of his vertebrae slip out to greet you.

“Hell!” Steve screams, “Is that fucking necessary!?”

He pushes you roughly out the collapsing room and nearly throws you down the stairwell. There’s some smart comment or another that gets lobbed at him, but Steve prudently ignores it and your voice ebbs away when you are launched down three flights of stairs. Bucky is stepping fast paced by the thirteenth story.

You gasp for breath and put one hand on his shoulder, “Race ya.”

Steve’s heavy boots land with a thud, breaking up the moment. An enormous piece of drywall crumbles and sprinkles dust and fire from above.

“ _Move_!”

Your arms break out in goosebumps when Bucky grabs the back of your suit and takes you down.

-

Wednesday night in a shared hotel suite sheds too much light on your problem. An itch that can’t be scratched, sitting on a queen-sized bed while two others smush up on the pull out because of some old-fashioned boy-chivalry.

You take the last shower to relieve the frustration, feeling somewhat sated when you emerge bright pink from scrubbing. The robe is tied loosely, and you slip into the kitchenette to find a snack, tiptoeing through the dark shadows so neither of them will be bothered.

The mini fridge has tiny bottles of vodka and a chocolate bar and they all get tucked under your arm. When you turn around, Bucky is peeking over your shoulder.

“Goddamn, Barnes! I almost shit myself!”

He catches your pilfered treasures deftly in his hand and set them on the counter. The fridge door swings open limply, yellow light reflecting the lines of his face, confused and a little bewildered by the spread of alcohol and candy.

You quirk your head too, because one side of his mane is singed off. “From the fire?” Your wry smile tells him it’s as bad as he thinks it is, and Bucky frowns, running his hand through, clenching his fist around the frayed ends. “Do you want me to trim the rest?”

For the first time that you’ve known him, he looks like a little boy, almost petulantly so and a little flutter in your stomach gives you pause. Lingering behind him, your fingers reach up to grip his hair, catching the uneven strands between them. He still smells like smoke even after his shower. The ashy scent mingles with the hotel complimentaries—dusty cedar and pine notes accompanied by gunpowder. Clean sweat that is purely _boy_.

Because Bucky always keeps a knife on him, he wordlessly places one in your open palm and sits down on the floor silently.

“Where’s Cap?” You ask, surprised when your voice comes out unsteady.

The first handful slices through with a whistle and Bucky tenses under your touch. “Went out.” He replies. Another strip comes clean off and you work to even the edges, cutting in delicate motions. “Watch the ears.” Bucky warns as you crawl around him on your knees.

“What? You need ‘em?”

The long side is clipped to match the burned side, and your fingers slowly slide upwards, palm rubbing against his scalp, strands pinched. A few more cuts and then you begin to even out the back, smiling slightly at the softness of his dark locks.

Bucky leans into your hand with a slow hum, and you poke his neck with the handle of the knife to straighten him out—to give him distance from you. Or to give _you_ distance from _him_.

He grumbles when you fist his hair again, tucking the knife into the front waistband of your underwear and shuffle around to look at the front. With two hands, you pinch the sides and fluff the top, moving tufts left and right to ascertain the correct way to part his hair. They all looked about the same.

“Well, it’s not bad—but I’d certainly get it redone later.”

He’s peering at you with half a frown and a furrowed brow, and you shrug in response, pushing your hand forward one last time nearly out of habit now. When Bucky suddenly sighs with your palm over his head, your eyes widen and you come to the third realization:

 _Bucky_ , apparently, is the flavor of the day.

The two of you stare at each other in the dim light of the kitchenette floor. It probably wasn’t a good idea to chop off all his hair in the dark, but all of that is out the window now as you blink at him. With it away from his cheeks, he looks changed.

_Strikingly handsome._

The overhead light starts to flicker, showing you his face in half-second pulses. He blinks once. Twice. His mouth opens ever so gently.

Then the door swings open with a clatter and Steve announces his return with three grease-soaked bags of fast food plopped on the counter. “You two okay? Is that a knife in your—Jesus! Will ya cover up?”

You hadn’t noticed that the front of your robe has fallen open, revealing the sheer bralette and underwear with Bucky’s knife tucked in the front. As Steve sputters and turns around, pulling out his meal, Bucky reaches forward and takes his blade from your hip, bottom lip pinched between his teeth.

His eyes lock on yours as he moves forward onto his knees. You’re trapped in his gaze, unaware of his hands tugging on the front of your robe, pulling it shut. Steve’s body lands heavily onto the couch, and the crashing of its back against the wall rips you from the moment. Your eyes flutter, searching Bucky for answers.

He gives you nothing but a slow sweep of his tongue in the corner of his mouth. His lips purse, breath escaping in a tiny, hot, pant.

Then slowly, he lifts himself up to his feet.

“Hey, Stevie, where’d you park the car?”

Steve perks up from the couch, “Just to the left, why?”

You follow the shape of Bucky’s legs as he steps out of the kitchenette, turning ever so slightly to look down at your crouched form still on the floor. He tucks his knife back into its sheath.

“We’re going out for a bit.”

You nearly plant face-first getting to your feet, toes slipping against the scattered dark strands of Bucky’s hair.

“You got a haircut!?” Steve hollers as Bucky yanks the door open. “Buck?” And then he sees you running after, damp cotton robe flapping against your thigh. “Wha—”

The door slams shut before Steve can get another word out and Bucky is pressing you up against its frame, hands underneath your breasts, holding you up. “We’re not goin’ anywhere,” he whispers before scraping his teeth against your collarbone, “I’m gonna fuck you in the car.”

_Holy shit._

Bucky pulls you along by the band of your top, not giving a fuck if your tits fall out in the middle of the parking lot.

Apparently, you think, with a shuddering groan as he looks back mischievously, _you_ are Bucky’s flavor of the day.

* * *

Car creaking. Fogged windows. A hand slammed against the glass, sliding down. Steve, poor old Steve, squinting at the windshield as he steps out into the darkness.

There is a clunk and a bang and the left door swings open suddenly, Bucky’s head falling forwards, yours beneath it leaning back, skull nearly slamming into the metal frame. Two sets of shoulders glistening with sweat and mouths open in ringing laughter.

“Fuck me!” You yelp, “You grabbed the handle, dumbass!”

Bucky shushes you with a palm to your mouth. “It’s fine! Get back in here befor—”

 _Steve sees._ Is what he means to say next.

Oh, Steve _sees_.

“What?” You lift yourself up, licking his throat, crunching forward to push him back in the car. The yellow streetlight falls on your sternum, Bucky’s arm reaches up to shield your bare chest and you swat it away obliviously. “Gimme that mouth!” You demand.

He pushes his entire hand to your face, mouths at Steve to _fuck off, you pervert._ And Steve mouths back, finger pretending to scrawl into the air: _I’m gonna write both you up_!

“Barnes! I can’t fucking breathe!”

Bucky tugs you back, lifting his body so you can shimmy underneath until you’ve disappeared from view. His eyes glare at Steve, still standing with his arms crossed, gesturing furiously. _Indecency_!

Bucky grins, lips parting slowly to silently pronounce each syllable: _Grumpy. Old. Fuck._


	3. The Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky loses another shirt.

Bucky is missing another shirt on Saturday morning. He rifles through his closet, slapping the hangers to the left and down the pole where they clack against each other fearfully. Last week, this happened too. His favorite red Henley with the threadbare hem and black buttons— all day he had searched for it until—

_Oh._

With a slightly exasperated groan and a backwards tilt of his head, he closes the closet door. Quietly, he slips out of his room and down the silent hallway until the chatter of voices from the kitchen meets his ears.

Wilson stands at the stove top, flipping pancakes the size of plates— heavy, thick, wheat ones, overloaded with blueberries. Steve is to his side, pouring milk and stealing fruit when Sam isn’t looking. Natasha is perched on the counter, sipping black coffee.

And then, his eyes skip over to the dining table where a pair of delicate feet are propped up on the glass, toes tapping off-beat to a tuneless song.

You.

No matter how many times Tony and Steve tell you to stop putting your feet on the table, you still do— almost out of spite and with glee. You match Steve in stubbornness and Sam in annoying-ness. You’re just a step behind Natasha when it comes to acting, too. The combination could be lethal if you weren’t such a lawless brat, squandering your talents on petty revenge.

You’re leaned back in the chair, comic book in hand with a silly lopsided smile and your hair tied in the messiest of buns. Strands loop out from the elastic, flop against your ear pathetically. There is a smudge of toothpaste on the corner of your mouth, and when you lick your dry lips, you lick it away too.

“Hey, when are those pannies ready?” You ask over the line of the glossed book.

“Don’t call them panties! And don’t rush perfection!” Sam hollers back.

“Okay…” You try again, “When are those pancakies ready?”

“Pan- _cakes_.” Steve sends over his shoulder, “Pancakes. One word, two syllables, no ‘y’ at the end.”

“Uh. It’s I and E, sir.” And when Steve sighs in displeasure, you tug the collar of the shirt over the bridge of your nose and hide your snickering inside. You pop a finger in your mouth and flip the page, leaving a wet round print on the edge. Tony is going to kill you when he finds out that you are desecrating his rare collection with spit.

With a snort and shake of his head, Bucky runs his hand through his bangs and walks up next to the table. “Huh.” He mumbles, finger rubbing the sleeve spilling from your shoulder, threatening to flood all the way down to your elbow. The specked brown fabric, slightly pilled is familiar beneath the pads of his thumb.

The very one he was searching for this morning. That timeworn thing, half falling apart because it’s been so many times washed.

“This looks familiar.”

“This?” You ask, eyes wide, “Is it— is it _yours_? Aw jeez, Barnes. I found it in the laundry room. It just looked so comfy.” One foot scratches the other and the shirt rides up your legs and folds against your stomach. Your rub the fabric against your collarbone, shifting it side to side, and the middle falls in-between your breasts, outlining the shape of you.

He has to bite down on his cheek to stop his next expression, but hums a noise of surprise anyway, “Wonder how it got in _there_.”

You shrug and blush, give him a fake demure smile before scooting your chair back and heading over to grab food. He follows lazily behind, watches the hem swing at the top of your thighs, a tiny inch of your athletic shorts peeks out underneath. You’re ridiculous, he thinks.

“Yummy yummy yummy, get into into my tummy.” You pull three pancakes onto your plate and Steve glares at the way you use your fingers even though there is a fork in your other hand.

“Your germs are gonna go into _my_ tummy.”

Shocked, you press three bent fingertips to your sternum, “Captain, sir! It’s called a _stomach_! Two syllables. No Y!”

Steve follows your hand with a wry smile, then the slightest tilt of his head happens as he narrows his eyes on your chest.

“Captain Rogers, are you checking out my tit-tats?”

With a stutter, Steve flushes and turns around, busies himself with getting his own pancakes. Everyone else follows suit and soon enough the dining table is seated with all five, pouring syrup and cutting fluffy stacks into smaller pieces.

To his right, Bucky watches you roll up a pancake like a log and dunk it into a lake of syrup you’ve squirted on your plate. With your mouth full, you take your fork and steal a triangle from him. Syrup dribbles onto your— _his_ shirt.

“We literally have the same food.” he complains.

“But… yours is better; Wilson put more love into yours. I think he put fingernails in mine.”

Across the table, Natasha smirks, “Arsenic, maybe.”

“Actually,” Sam corrects, “It’s rat poison.”

Behind another log dripping with syrup and melted butter, you grin and waggle your eyebrows at Sam, tongue slipping out beneath the roll to lap the dripping syrup away. Bucky kicks you under the table, a quiet reminder to stop being so obnoxious.

Instead of heeding his advice, you shove the rest of the sticky tube into your mouth and choke a little.

“Jesus Christ.” He mutters, turning away from where you are pounding on the table and coughing. “You dead?”

“Rest in damn pieces.” Sam adds.

Steve continues to stare suspiciously as you press your cheek to the glass surface and catch your breath.

You’re going to drive him crazy, he thinks.

He hides the smile behind a cut of pancake and a swig of coffee. A few more bites and he loads his plate into the dishwasher, returning to his room to take a shower, even thanking Sam for breakfast without an insult. Wilson looks after him curiously but takes the compliment where he can get it.

On his way back to his room, Bucky stops by the familiar door decorated with a single poster you printed off in the lab—a kitschy and poorly edited photograph of Sam with a rainbow-colored clown wig over his head, not even fully covering his hair. Underneath his torso are the words _Sam Wilson Local Dumbass_.

You had made it after a mission where Sam’s wing clipped your shoulder and your gun went off into a gas tank, blowing out half the floor. It’s been almost half a year and you still haven’t taken the poster down—vowing not to change it until the year passes. Petty revenge, Bucky scoffs to himself.

Bucky pushes past the door and yanks open your closet, staring at the piles of shirts and shorts, mountains of pants and dresses you’ve never worn. On top of each heap are a million pairs of panties, like you just grab your laundry basket and throw it in. You probably do. The doors are always shut probably because you have the object permanence of an infant and if it’s out of sight, it’s out of mind, too.

He laughs when he sees the assorted hangers on the pole, varying sizes and some bent completely out of shape. There are precisely four, neatly aligned next to each other, out of place with the rest of the disordered space.

His hand reaches up to tug on the familiar red Henley he found last week over your torso as you sat watching a movie with Natasha. You had tied an elastic band to the bottom of it, the tiniest sliver of your hip showing beneath.

Next to the red is a gray long-sleeve. Next to that is a cream-colored shirt he hardly wears but you mentioned one night that you liked seeing him in lighter colors. Ironic that you’d steal it from him, then.

At the end of the row, folded neatly over the bar of a plastic green hanger, is a single pair of his black boxers and he nearly hisses when he yanks it off in mortification.

“What?” Your voice calls from the doorway, “They’re _clean_.”

“Jesus! Why do you have these?”

A wide grin stretches over your mouth, “I wear ‘em to sleep sometimes. Mostly when you’re not here.”

“Darlin’, you got your own clothes.” Bucky smiles, wishing he could genuinely find your antics annoying and not so _damn cute._ Walking forward, his fingers reach under your shirt where the smooth plane of your stomach starts, other hand moving over your head to push the door close. “It’s hard to keep a secret when you’re so obvious about it.”

You whine, bratty again, and he shuts up the noise with a press of his mouth over yours, “It was only fun for like, two months.” You mutter into his mouth, “But really, Buck. Everyone here is so oblivious that we could probably fuck on the conference table and they wouldn’t notice.”

A strangled breath falls out of his mouth, “We- we haven’t—f—” He can’t even bring himself to say it, because unfortunately, he is so stupidly shy when it comes to you. “D-don’t say _f.._.” His face burns red and he attempts to look at anything else but your devious smile as you tap a finger over the band of his sweatpants.

“Fuck?” You laugh, “Fucky-fuck-fuck, Bucky-Buck-Buck.”

Then, quick as a whip, you leap up and lock your ankles around his waist, knees splayed out to his sides. Automatically, his hands catch underneath your bottom. Three months of secretly dating and all he’s done is kiss you senseless in utility closets. And now you’re saying… Jesus.

You’re going to kill him, he thinks.

Leaning back, you almost pitch out of his hold but then you stop yourself and slowly shrug the shirt— _his_ shirt from your torso. “You wanna, right? Three months, Bucko. You’re playing a slow burn game that I am _not_ good at.” You grin and drop the shirt onto the floor, the sight of your bare skin turning his entire body hot. “Bucky…!” You whine loudly, bouncing in his arms, “Come _on_!”

He groans at the way you shift against his groin and thinks _fuck it._ If you kill him, it’ll be a good thing. Rest in _damn_ good pieces. Bucky sighs and tilts forward, pressing his nose to your neck, inhaling the scent of maple syrup. “Baby, you’re so—”

The door slams open and you yelp, falling out of Bucky’s hands and onto the floor on your back. “What the fuck!”

Steve is pointing, wide triumphant grin across his face, “I _knew_ it! I _knew_ that shirt looked familiar!” Bucky pitches forward, covers your bare chest with his body and nearly crushes you underneath.

“You fucking perv, Steve! Stop trying to look at my tit-tats!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Steve cries, turning around. Bucky kicks the door shut with his foot as you continue to curse out Steve on the other side of the door. With an amused sigh at the way your nose scrunches up as you hurl insults, he presses his nose to your collarbone again, licks away the stain of syrup you’d dropped earlier on yourself.

–

He wakes up in your empty bed around noon, groggy and a little confused as to why you’re suddenly gone. Disappointment and fear sparks in his chest at the thought of his lonely state. Was it bad? Maybe this is how you’re breaking up with him. Fuck—was it _that_ bad?

Bucky slowly gets up, slips on his sweatpants from the earlier morning and scoops his clothes into his arms, mind set on clearing out his belongings from your room if the relationship is truly over, not even bothering to put a shirt on.

The hallway isn’t empty this time—down the walkway you are crouched with something in your hand in front of Natasha’s room, but you pay him no mind. Bucky tucks his clothing under his arm, turning around to close your door before his eyes catch sight of what’s been newly taped to it.

An enormous poster decorates the plain paint. Steve’s face is blown up and touches each corner. Over his eyes you’ve photoshopped two enormous breasts and under his chin are the words: _Steve Rogers, Local Pervert_.

Bucky sputters before a loud howling laughter tears itself from his throat as he pitches over to hold himself up on the door frame. It’s obscene—the petty revenge, it’s your worst one yet. He’s really going to fall in love with you, he thinks.

Down the hallway, you look over and grin at him, taping yet another poster to someone else’s door. Over your torso, again, as always, is his shirt.


	4. Keen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bartons’ Vow Renewal Ceremony, Bucky’s exasperation (among other things), and some peaches makes for a fantastic afternoon.

It’s never the revealing outfits that catches Bucky’s attention.

The shredded tank top exposing a lacy bra— an exciting blend of sexy and sweet, or the skintight white dress from last Saturday’s outing that hugged so snugly he could see the cleft of your ass. He doesn’t bat an eye.

Silk robes and nothing else to mission debriefs. Boy shorts and a frayed crop-top emblazoned with a summer camp logo. Nothing. Once you answered your door in fishnet tights and a tank top, half pulling on shorts, and because Bucky was so used to it, he threw the book you asked to borrow onto your bed and left as if he never saw you.

Your clothing collection leaves very little to the imagination because frankly, _you_ leave very little to the imagination. Bucky knows more about you than he knows about Steve and it would only make him uncomfortable if he didn’t know you for so _long_.

There is no filter between your brain and your mouth, and you have absolutely zero sense of propriety.

Between burping in the middle of dinner, clipping your nails and scattering them on the floor of Sam’s room when he irritates you, complaining openly about _pissing out of your ass_ after eating an entire box of Triscuits, your prancing around in nothing but socks and a t-shirt doesn’t even register in his mind as inappropriate. All of that sounds like a Tuesday night when you’re applying a mud-mask and wrestling to get him to try it, too.

It’s the dress you wear to Clint and Laura’s 10-year anniversary that kills him.

A lemon-yellow and soft fabric with loose capped sleeves, flowing down to your shins and cinched neatly at your waist with a thin bow. The sheer material gives him a clear view of your legs inside when you dart through the beams of the afternoon sun.

It makes you look otherworldly and gorgeous. Delicate like you never are, and to his utter _shock_ , it stirs him wild.

He finds himself situated between Steve and Sam and staring at the back of your head during the vow exchange. Your hair is still wet because you had overslept and sprinted down the road to get here on time. Luckily, the Barton’s had extra accommodations just a few miles away—Clint’s newfound hobby as a retired Avenger and rural dad. Unluckily, your heel broke off and you ran barefoot, dragging blood over the lush grass.

Water droplets collect on the nape of your neck and roll down into the fabric, soaking the back until it turns orange. He pinches himself because _no way_. No way is he thinking about dragging you behind the barn in the middle of a vow renewal ceremony and—

“Earth to Bonky!” Your fingers snap in his face. Three of your nails are chipped, and you shove your pointer back into your mouth, teeth nipping against it to tear it free. “Let’s get _fucked_ up on some bubbly.”

He feels lightheaded because the cocktail hour has begun and that he didn’t even notice.

You grab him by the waist and lurch forward, throwing your broken shoes under the chair and pretending like they don’t exist. 

Picnic tables are set for the guests, thin off-white linen tablecloths adorned with the exact kind of decorations perfect for a ceremony in the back of the Barton’s farmhouse. Eucalyptus dollars and dusty green lamb’s ears burst from the entwined centerpiece running through the middle of each tabletop. Creamy garden roses are placed sporadically along the length of the vine, split open peaches and blackberries lie waiting to be tasted on polished ceramic plates.

It’s beautiful.

Bucky couldn’t care less.

Your teeth sink into a ripe yellow peach matching that _damn_ dress and its juice spurts from your mouth and down your chest in sticky trails. Bucky chokes on his champagne and spits back into the flute and both of you look like complete idiots who either need bibs or need to be quarantined away from the real adults.

“What is going on with you two?” Sam mutters behind a stiff jaw as his eyes roll from left to right, “Y’all embarrassing me in front of the _ladies_.” Bucky puts a hand up in apology and steers you away from Laura’s shocked sisters and over to the rolled-up cutlery where he slaps a cloth napkin over your sternum.

“I was saving it for later; I can get a little slurp-slurp if I bend down far enough.”

“Will you shut— _please_ , it’s distracting.”

A furrow of your eyebrows shushes him as you slowly dab at the liquid on your chest. In your other hand, you hold onto the half-eaten peach suspiciously. Bucky tenses when you look him up and down, taking in his stiff posture and the way he is fisting the crystal glass in his hand. “You… okay?”

“Fine. They’re just… gross.” He grunts.

You quirk your head even further and narrow your eyes at the way he stands, weight pressed on one leg, arms crossed suddenly as if he’s protecting himself.

Bucky grumbles incoherently, stares off into the distance and finds interest in hay bales and chickens. He unbuttons the front of his blazer and straightens his spine, anything to stand a little taller and ground himself. His hands begin to fiddle by his sides, and he fixes his tie in a moment of unease.

The grass shuffles beneath your feet as you step in front of him, blocking the perfect view he had of a yard he longed to throw himself across. You hold the peach out in front of his face with an amused grin.

The glint in your eye tells him the kind of trouble he’s in. “ _This_? Oh, Bucky, this isn’t _gross_ … It’s actually _delicious_ —” Your bottom lip is rolled between your teeth as you gasp and moan.

He glares straight through your face and into The Abyss. You are milking it.

“—Mmm.. oh _god!_ Juicy.” A squelch breaks the silence as your mouth sucks the nectar onto your tongue, “Sweet. Tangy. _Wet,_ and _so_ soft…” Your tongue lewdly traces the corner of your mouth and up over the top of your lip. Maddeningly slow. “It’s kind of like eating…”

You place the fruit under your nose and plunge the tip of your tongue inside, flicking a few times at the edge of where the soft yellow flesh meets the thin layer of fuzzy orange-pink skin. “Kind of like eating pus—”

A hand spikes the peach out of your face and clear across the yard. When the two of you are finished following its trajectory as it pathetically rolls to a stop so far away it’s nearly gone, your heads turn back to see Steve hovering with a glower.

“Not. Okay.” He grits out, “Family event!” Steve yanks his thumb back to the tables where no one else seems to think anything of your absence, but granted, not everyone has super hearing. “Don’t make me come back here.”

Steve struts off with a final huff, giving Bucky a disappointed sigh—or perhaps a sympathetic one. Your smirk is barely hidden by the back of your hand as you watch Steve clomp away and then you erupt into laughter so hard you have to hold onto Bucky to keep yourself upright. Your wrist is splayed over his shoulder, forehead pressed to your own arm as you giggle.

Rising from your chest and mouth is the smell of ripe peach flesh, enclosing his senses completely. It is summery like the sun and the yellow of your dress. Ripe and _sweet_ and _tangy,_ just like you had said. Bucky licks his lips and groans when your breath blows over his neck.

“You think he–?” You ask quietly, turning so that the tip of your nose barely brushes against him.

Bucky shrugs. “Not like this is out of the ordinary for you.”

Another gust of air rushes down his back when you exhale, “True. Meet me behind the barn, _Barnes_?”

And then you’re off, extremely proud of yourself, bare feet sneaking away as quickly as possible so no one will notice your absence from the mingling. Bucky watches you disappear behind a row of trees and around the corner and shudders in excitement.

The two of you have been fooling around sporadically for the past month, but as you promised– and he delivered– nothing has changed. He still yells at you for oversharing, and you still clobber him with a box of Triscuits and a jar full of _something_ for his face once a week. The only difference is that now sometimes he shows up half-dressed, too.

Bucky grins to himself as he takes a step after you. Then he pauses and heads the other way.

Five minutes later, he turns the corner and finds the dress that started it all hiked up over your hips and you erupt into laughter again at the sight of two peaches in his hand.

-


	5. Good Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second his shoulder rubbed against yours, you found yourself thinking that you were either going to have his baby, or you were going to die alone.

“How do you feel about the color orange?”

It’s a Friday night in the tower, almost bedtime when you embark of a journey of questions, carefully placed breadcrumbs for Bucky.

“I feel… fine?”

“Light orange or dark orange?”

“What’s dark orange look like? A dirty penny?”

“Light orange it is.” You scrunch your nose at the thought of painting a room the shade he’s imagining.

“What for?”

You shrug.

When you both brush your teeth, you take glance at him in the mirror, eyes trailing from his brow to his chin, attentive to the way his nose slopes and his jaw cuts. Jesus, you’d be lucky if–

Bucky mutters from behind a mouthful of toothpaste suds, “What is it?”

After four years it makes sense that he would be able to figure out when you’re keeping thoughts to yourself. He’s in your head, Bucky Barnes. Even when he’s not there, you’re thinking of him. Every second of the day, really. It’s Bucky breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and all other hours, too. It makes you a little bewildered with joy that you can feel so _much_ for a single person.

Even before he kissed you at the end of that horrid mission— when you nearly drowned in some lake in Scotland. He had plunged into the murky depths, arm gushing blood, yanked you up onto shore and performed CPR. Your ribs nearly broke and Sam was by his side, head in his hands. _Get up, get up, get up, goddamn it!_

With a final two-handed press into your chest where the slightest bit of crunching could be heard, you spat. Two mouthfuls of foggy blue-green right into his face.

_FUCK!_

Sam sighed in relief, leaning back with his hands on his waist because if you hadn’t woken up, he thought, Bucky would have burned down the entire country.

 _I think—_ another sputter as you attempted to catch your breath— _the fucking Loch Ness monster— fuck. I think I saw that shit._

Blinking the prickling from your eyes, you struggled to see clearly from the swelling of your lids. Your sternum felt bruised, and in front of you, Bucky looked about ready to burst into tears.

_You got a little—haha—my spit—on your face._

He snarled and you reeled back in response. He _snarled_ and shoved you back into the mud and kissed you until you coughed again into his mouth, a final splash dowsing a blazing moment.

Sam looked away with a grin and spoke into his earpiece, updating the rest of the team of your status. _She’s up. Well—sort of. Barnes is kind of all over her._

Even before that moment, your head had been swimming with all thoughts of him along with desperate attempts to drive them away—make them small and unseen so you don’t trail behind him like a lovesick idiot.

He was the damn _Winter Soldier_. He was a legend and you were just a loud-mouthed kid, only twenty.

You had been rough around the edges, needing a lot of preparation and training before you could run any missions. There was a lot of difficulty at first, especially when it came to Steve. You were always too clumsy, too brash, not enough pirouettes and cartwheels. Whatever.

So, after days of doing nothing but getting scolded and running simulations alone with FRIDAY, Steve dragged Bucky into the weight room where you were throwing a seventy-pound medicine ball around like it was a can of soup.

 _Punch her_. Steve had commanded with a smirk, a little irritated that earlier in the day you kicked his legs out underneath his shield. _Punch her with your arm_.

You almost shit yourself. And Bucky looked like he could have, too. It took a lot of yelling from Steve, yelling back from Bucky, and incomprehensible yelling from you before Bucky was so overwhelmed with the noise that he just _did it_.

That powerful arm pulled back, whirred, launched itself forward and you had bat it away like a ping pong ball, feet grounded assertively. Wide blue eyes pierced you, made your heart leap into your mouth, and when he did it again you were so struck by him it hit square in your chest.

Steve clapped his hands together. _Great_. _Meet your new training buddy. You two rough each other up—Buck, you get her right because she’s inconsistent and I’ve got her signed up for a patrol three weeks out._

As Steve promised, three weeks later, you were crammed into a tiny car next to Bucky. The second his shoulder rubbed against yours, you found yourself thinking that you were either going to have his baby, or you were going to die alone.

It was a joke, to start, but you really had it _bad_ , finding yourself more anxious and fearful, and covering it up with smart quips and comments in hopes of throwing him off.

 _Barnes, you get The Avengers Ass Award from me, Cap be damned_.

Absurd bantering during jogs together when he would stop to pull his hair back and you were struggling to keep up. Your spine tingled when a strand of hair fell forward and hung over his face. _Bucky are you from Tennessee ‘cause you’re the only ten-I-see._

He would laugh and wink, call you _baby,_ and egg you on because kids are inexplicable, and Peter Parker’s twitter feed had opened his eyes to all sorts of compliments used in the modern age between friends.

 _Yeah_ , you would grin, _totally, friends. Me and you, totally, definitely, friends._

Eight months later, Scotland turned the whole thing sideways.

 _Yeah. We all knew. Y’all are stupid-cute._ Sam had snickered. In your ear through the comm link were cheers and whooping. Bucky turned red like the cut on his arm.

-

“What about green? How do you feel about green?”

“You’re doin’ the thing again.” His comment borders on annoyed as he gives you a sideways glance, throwing his toothbrush back in the cup with a tinny _clink_.

“What thing?”

“Pretending you’re deaf.”

“Okay…” You smirk, “but what about green? You like green?”

He scoffs, moves so that he’s behind you and swings both arms around to lock over your middle. His chin rests on your shoulder, the scruff of his beard rubbing against your cheek. Once again, you’re reminded of just how much you adore him. Your tummy flutters with nerves as his eyes find yours in the glass, big and curious.

“What’s goin on with you? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

-

_Tell me what you’re thinking._

The fallout of Scotland lingered awkwardly after the plane ride when he rushed back to his room taking long strides and not giving you another glance. He didn’t even have the courage to look at you—only facing the side wall, tucked himself behind the button panel.

Two weeks passed before you cornered him in his own room and spoke those words that would eventually become an integral part of your relationship.

_Tell me what you’re thinking, Bucky. If it was a mistake, tell me. If it wasn’t, tell me. You’ve been avoiding me and look—Barnes, I want your goddamn babies, but c’mon. You gotta throw me a bone, I’m shit at reading signs._

There was a strange look in his eye, an overcast sweep staring at his hands clenched together tightly, and for the first time in a long time he didn’t laugh at your jokes. The plates whirred to his left, the knuckles turned bone white on his right. You opened your mouth silently. Three breaths passed before you pushed him up against the wall, using all your strength to peel his hands away.

Then, a kiss. The softest of kisses you could give another human being. Because he was made of memories and regret—pieced back together in the form of Bucky Barnes as fragile as a glass menagerie. You didn’t have to ask him what he was thinking again—it was all over his face: He wasn’t good enough. He was a broken thing. You deserved better. Someone your age, maybe someone who could give you a different life.

So, as you had always done, you bat it away and grabbed him by the face. The second kiss had bruised you both. Sam didn’t let either of you live down matching cut lips for a month.

-

“What’s your favorite animal?” You ask quietly, ignoring Bucky’s question as you snuggle up next to him in bed.

“Darlin’… I’m tired. Either tell me what it is, or lemme go to sleep.”

You pout and ram your forehead into his arm childishly, “Just tell me!” Usually he thinks it’s cute when you act like this, but tonight he’s had enough of it. He calls your name in a low tone, the same kind of voice Steve uses when you’ve been too nonchalant with mission orders.

In the dark, you grip onto his hand and press your cheek against his arm, commanding your throbbing heart to still just for a moment. “Do you remember when we went to Clint’s place last year?”

“For Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah. And he—he had some of Laura’s family over?”

“And that wretched green bean casserole?”

You laugh a little, swallow thickly, “Remember after dessert when I asked to hold the baby?”

Bucky pauses, digs around in his brain for the moment, “Yeah—you said it was ugly and…”

The lamp on the end-table floods the room orange as Bucky sits up and peers down at you still attached to his elbow. There is recognition in his eyes and suddenly he looks his age—pallid, gaunt, and so deeply afraid. You can only manage a tiny lopsided tug of your lips.

“Are you?” He asks, voice shaking.

You wring your hands nervously, shut your eyes, and hope that when they open Bucky’s expression would change from pained to elated.

“Shit, baby. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Okay, guess you’re not taking it well.” Your face burns with embarrassment before the heat falls into your stomach like stones. It should have been a moment of bliss—when the man you love would scoop you up into his arms and spin you around while confetti flakes sprinkles from the sky. Then, fireworks, shot by Iron Man would spell _Baby Barnes!_ in the background.

Instead, Bucky looks like he might die on the spot.

He can’t help but feel so worthless, because he hardly feels like he deserves you most days, much less face the thought of bringing an entire _person_ into the world. A child. An innocent. And him—unworthy of goodness.

He chokes, “Baby, I—the, fuck. I can’t give this kid—” He sputters and groans, throws his head back against the wall and you think you might hear the plaster cracking behind his skull. Your face twists into a look of irritation.

“You better not say what I think you’re going to say.”

He looks up, shocked, then quickly ashamed.

-

_I can’t give you the life that you deserve. You’re… you’ve got better options than me. You deserve to be with someone your age._

Four months after the near-drowning and the most perfect, sweetest, kiss. Four months after telling you he would love you, Bucky pulled away in the middle of the night and shut himself out of his own future. You had laughed, and then cried, and then let him have his way. _Okay. Yeah, if you really think so._

The next week, Tony threw a party for the new SHIELD recruits and you had gotten extremely drunk off eight mouthfuls of whiskey. Across the room was one very expensive Japanese vase, standing five feet tall and gaping at the ceiling.

The recruit next to you watched in awe as you tossed all empty shot-glasses clear over the heads of seventy people and they crashed into the chasm of the urn, hand up dramatically as if you were making a 3-pointer. _Steph Curry with the shot, boy!_

Tony sent Bucky a contemptuous look and mouthed _fix this_ the same time the young man’s arm snaked around your waist. Then, you clasped your hand over his with a wolfish grin and waltzed with him out of the room.

Bucky stormed after, snatching you off the recruit who was happily kissing you against the wall. Bucky scowled, squared his shoulders and demanded to know what you were thinking.

With a wide and slow sweep of your outstretched hand, you bowed, teetering just a little.

_Buck, you said I deserved better. Here it is. Its name is Henderson._

Bucky pointed at the agent, suddenly caught in the middle of a quarrel he never intended on seeing. The Winter Soldier, looking like he could level the floor, and you, _just_ as strong, glaring back matching his ferocity. _You think this … boy –_ a condescending scoff sent Henderson shrinking down– _could give you better?_

_He’s my age! Wasn’t that your suggestion? Hey! Henderson, you can give me ‘better’, right? Go grind on each other at a club like us kids do? Make-out in public and dry-hump in the car before fucking all night at your place? Or hey— let’s fuck all night right here! Do you know—Henderson, do you know whose room is two doors away from mine?_

Henderson had been smart enough to sneak away before he could see Bucky press you up against the wall and latch his mouth onto yours. Tears were streaming down your face, way before your tirade had finished. It poured and dripped and wet the front of both your shirts. _Bucky Barnes, you’re full of–_

He didn’t let you finish. He held your face and wiped your tears. He kissed you again for the last first time, rekindling the fire he had been trying to extinguish.

It would burn, Bucky thought then, until you chose to leave him, because he wasn’t going to leave you again.

-

“Say it to me again.” You hiss, “ _Try_ me.”

“Baby…”

You crawl on top, grab his face with one hand and squeeze until his cheeks mush up and his mouth hangs open. “Don’t be so fucking self-deprecating! I don’t like it! You’re being mean to _my Bucky_ and I’m gonna beat you up because _I love him_!”

“Un— o—okay- hon, leggo—” the words escape him pinched together, but you are stubborn. You hold on longer, glare at him harder until he lets out a long-suffering sigh, relenting with a smile—still crushed by your thumb.

Happily, you give him a kiss on the cheek and let go. Bucky rubs his jaw where your fingerprints feel like they might bruise more than just his ego.

A tentative look at your belly, still smooth and firm. His hand finds the plane of it, fingers brushing the skin and over newly forming goosebumps. A surprising amount of excitement flutters in his own at the thought. It’d be good. A good baby. Made up of him and you, and the love you’ve fostered in him, too.

“Mmm, so… green?” You mutter, leaning down to kiss him once more. “How do you feel about green?”

Bucky laughs into your mouth. Defeated. Elated.

“Yeah. Green’s good, honey. Green’s good.”


End file.
